“Those republicans, the rebels?” It can’t be the Vatran royals or their court now; they’d not only kill their own heir but breach the Covenant, given that she is blood bound to Skylar. They’d forfeit the Heart if they killed Astrid. She realizes she’s thinking of the Vatran royals as a separate entity from Zryan and mentally corrects herself.
Zryan drums his fingers against his arm. “Maybe—though this is not exactly the rebels’ style.”
Astrid raises her brows. She thought this was exactly their style, according to the king. “So, what is?”
Zryan looks back at the corpse. “They’re more the rescuing-forcibly-conscripted types than the killing-princesses types.”
“?‘Rescuing’ is an interesting choice of words, Prince,” Astrid says bluntly. Rescue implies that Zryan believes they need saving—and if he thinks that, then it’s not too much of a leap to think he might not agree with the conscription.
Zryan’s eyes capture hers. “Apologies, Princess. I obviously misspoke. The rebels are… disruptors rather than murderers. On the whole anyway. There will always be extremes in any group, and I’m sure the rebels have theirs—people who are capable of and have the means to hire assassins, people with strong republican sentiment. We shouldn’t rule them out.”
“No. I suppose we shouldn’t.” And who the Hel else could it be if not these rebels?
WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH THE CORPSE?Bastet asks, and Zryan drags his focus to her familiar. The image of Zryan cradling Bastet to his powerful body flashes in her mind’s eye, and an intense ball of heat grows low in her belly.
“Bastet, is it?” he asks. “The Princess’s actual familiar, I presume.”
INDEED.Bastet narrows his eyes, adding, HOW DID YOU KNOW WE WERE IN NEED OF AID?
“I was walking below your balcony when I heard the princess scream. You have the doors open.”
“No one else heard me scream.” Which is a good point: Why didn’t Fionn come in when she called them? Surely they heard the commotion?
“The bedrooms are all soundproofed,” he says. “For reasons I’m sure you can guess.” His lips curve wickedly and she feels her cheeks flame.
“Why were you even by my window in the middle of the night?”
“I’ve been out. I was headed back into the castle when I heard you.”
She notices his clothes then. He’s wearing another sleeveless shirt, this one hooded—his muscled arms sensational in it, if she’s being honest—and black pants to match, looking for all the world like any regular citizen of Vatra. Although Zryan could never pass for regular anything. His presence is overwhelming, his gravitational pull more akin to that of a moon than a man.
“Where have you been?”
He lifts a brow. “So many questions, Princess. As I said, I’ve been out.”
“Out hiring assassins?” She knows full well Zryan isn’t behind this—it’s impossible he could be—and anyway, why the dramatic rescue if he was? She’s not sure why she’s baiting him, but something in her thrills her to do so.
His eyes darken, sucking her in like an abyss. Oh Goddess, the way he’s looking at her—she knows she should be terrified, but that’s the last thing she feels. He prowls toward her, movements languid, then leans over and braces his hands on the back of the sofa on either side of her head, eclipsing everything else. He lowers his face until there are mere inches between them. His nose is slightly crooked—obviously broken in the past. It only makes him more attractive.
“We’ve spoken about this.” His deep voice has a dangerous edge to it. “You will not die by my hand. In fact, you won’t die by any hand—not yet.”
Not yet. Not until the duel. When he needs her to die.
“Why not let them kill me? You could have saved your kingdom and kept the Heart, reclaimed your right to the throne—all you had to do was sacrifice me and your sister.” She can’t help the shake in her voice, the anger vibrating through her.
They stare each other down, or rather, he stares down at her while she strains her neck to glare at him, and she’s stunned to see pink tinge his cheeks.
“Assassins came for me,” he eventually says. “They killed someone important to me, someone very important to a close friend of mine. That person died to save me. No matter the predicament Vatra might find itself in right now, I will never stoop so low as to allow another cowardly fucking cutthroat to kill someone while they’re in my home. You are under my protection until the duel.” The way he’s looking at her makes her skin tingle. “You and Skylar both.”
He’s somehow closer now, so close she can smell the mint on his breath, see the black rings around his silver irises. She needs distance. Needs a big bucket of water.
“My dad died to save me, too,” she says. “Died because of me. I could barely live with myself after—it just seemed so wasteful. Thathe’d die for a dead woman.” She has no idea why she’s saying this, to him of all people. “I’m sorry, about… your person.”
He straightens, regarding her. “It’s the cost of what we were born into.” He says this bluntly, though there’s a softness in his tone, and she notices the way he brings his hand to his torso, absently running his fingers down the center of it. “I’m sorry about your father.”
Neither of them speaks for a moment, allowing what’s just passed between them to settle.
“I know your mother didn’t tell you what she was planning,” Zryan says. “I saw your face when she brought Skylar in, how shocked you were.”
